LA After Midnight
by Mayhem Managed
Summary: When the A-Team is hired to locate a missing teenager, they discover a whole new element to the Los Angeles underground.
1. Chapter 1

_Los Angeles, California_

_November 1985_

At precisely 2:30 PM, a beautiful blond woman entered the _Amour à la Première Morsure_, one of Los Angeles' more exclusive restaurants. "Marilyn Kendall, party of two," she said to the maître d', whose bald head contrasted with his magnificent red beard. He consulted his book.

"Apologies, madam, but I have no reservation under that name."

The woman frowned at this. "But you must, I'm meeting someone here and it's very important. Perhaps it's under the name of Mr. Lee? He was the one who made the reservation – it was early this morning."

The maître d' consulted his book again. "Hmm . . . nothing under "Lee". Are you quite certain the reservation was for today?"

"Yes, yes – it's very important that I meet with this person as soon as possible. Is there any way I would be able to get a table anyway?"

The maître d' emphatically shook his head. "I am sorry, Madam, but all our tables are booked."

Marilyn looked around incredulously. The tables were empty, save for one man engrossed in a newspaper. "It's the middle of the afternoon – no-one is here! I just need the table for a few minutes, and there was supposed to be a reservation – please!"

Sighing, the maître d' seemed moved by her pleading. "Perhaps we can arrange something. Follow me, please."

He turned and started winding his way through the restaurant, with Marilyn following behind. He went through some swinging doors to the kitchen, and from there to the storeroom. Marilyn's confusion grew as a muscular black man with a mohawk and an outrageous amount of gold jewelry approached them and said, "All clear back there, Hannibal."

"And nobody followed her through the front." She turned and saw the man with the newspaper smiling at her. "Hello there, ma'am. I'm Templeton Peck, this is B. A. Baracus, and this," he gestured at the maître d', who was in the process of removing a bald cap and false beard, "is Hannibal Smith."

The now beardless Hannibal shook Marilyn's hand and said, "Hello, Mrs. Kendall. We, ah, heard you were looking for us."

Knees buckling, Marilyn sat down on a nearby crate. "It . . . it's nice to meet you." She looked up at the team with an expression of relief. "I need you to find my son. His name is Mark, I have a picture of him – here," she pulled a photograph out of her purse and handed it to Hannibal. The photo showed a brown-haired teenager with a blond girl of about three in his arms. As the others crowded around to look at it, Marilyn explained: "That's him with his baby sister, Harmony."

"What happened to the kid?" asked B.A.

"I – I don't know. He came down to L.A for the weekend more than a week ago ago, and I just - I haven't heard from him since." Taking a moment to compose herself, she continued, "After he had been gone a few days, his girlfriend Robin disappeared too – she implied he was in some sort of trouble."

"Did she say anything that might tell us where he is?" Hannibal questioned around the cigar he was in the process of lighting.

"Yes, she – she mentioned a club, called . . . The Nest, I think?"

"Hannibal," broke in B.A., "I've heard about that place. It's in the Badlands, and that's a real rough neighborhood. Gonna have to be careful."

"Right," said Hannibal, with a resolute puff. "Face, call Murdock and tell him we're on the way to pick him up. B.A., get the van and bring it around the back. Mrs. Kendall . . . congratulations." He grinned. "You just hired the A-Team."

* * *

Clad in identical black suits and sunglasses hastily borrowed from the set of Hannibal's latest monster movie (_Return of the Snake from the Center of the Earth_), Face and Hannibal entered the V.A. hospital and strode up to the nearest nurse's station.

"Afternoon, Nurse," said Face, affecting the persona of a humorless bureaucrat. "I'm Agent Smith, FBI, and this is Agent Jones -" Hannibal blinked, then nodded in acknowledgement. "– and we're with Section X. I understand that a Hostile Sub-Terrestrial has manifested on the premises?" Receiving only a confused expression in response, he shuffled his document folder and continued. "The report indicates the creature in question is calling itself 'Malkavius'"?

"Oh! You mean Mr. Murdock!" Frowning, the nurse continued: "But Mr. Murdock has been with us for quite some time and couldn't possibly – "

"Nurse – Hunnicutt," Face quickly read off her nametag, "It is, err, quite common with many of these creatures to masquerade as members of humanity. This 'Murdock' is more than likely already dead."

"But . . . did you say 'creature?'" The poor nurse look as if she was about to faint.

"Of course, it may just be another expression of Mr. Murdock's psychosis," Face lectured, "but in cases like this the Bureau prefers certainty. Now, if you could show us where he's being kept?"

"Oh, of course," replied the rather confused nurse, "Right this way." And off she went, leaving Face and Hannibal to follow.

As they went, Hannibal leaned over and muttered in Face's ear. "'Hostile Sub-Terrestrial'?"

Face grinned sheepishly. "You remember the rumors in 'Nam about monsters in the tunnels?" Hannibal nodded. "Well, one night at the Doom Club I overheard some of the other officers discussing how they might fill out their paperwork if they ever came across one." He shrugged. "It seemed to fit."

"Ah. Just what did Murdock -?"

But further conversation was halted as they arrived at Murdock's room. Nurse Hunnicutt produced a key and unlocked the door. Hannibal grabbed the doorknob while Face pulled the nurse aside.

"Now, Agent Jones and I will examine the creature, and if it is in fact a Hostile Sub-Terrestrial, we'll probably be taking it with us for further study. Don't worry," he reassured her, "the rest of the hospital is completely safe." Without waiting for a response, he turned and followed Hannibal into Murdock's room.

The team pilot had his lights off and his curtains tightly drawn, with the only illumination coming from a great number of candles. As Face and Hannibal entered the room, the door swung shut behind them with a resounding 'thump'.

"Ve-e-elcome, mortals! Enter freely and of your own vill!" Turning towards the voice (the source of which had evidently been hiding behind the door); the faux FBI agents saw that the atrocious accent had come from none other than H. M. Murdock. He had somehow acquired a powder-blue cloak, which he had draped over his signature flight jacket. Slicked back hair, a large golden medallion, and a set of fake fangs all contributed to the image of a rather cheesy B-movie vampire.

"Look, Hannibal." Face deadpanned. "Bela Lugosi."

"Bela Lugosi is dead, silly. I am Count Malkavius!" Murdock waved his arms in a theatrical manner. "Von, two tasty mortals. Bwa-ha-ha!"

"The laugh is good, but the accent needs work." Hannibal remarked. "We have a job to do, Murdock, so let's go."

"Impossible! If I go out in the sunlight, it vill burn me to a crisp." Murdock sniffed. "It iz the price I pay for . . . immortality."

"Yeah, along with the fake accent and the bad fashion sense." muttered Face. "I knew it was a bad idea to let him read the script for _Rock and Roll Vampire._"

Hannibal tapped his watch. "We don't have time for this – it'll be dark by the time we get to The Nest as it is. Hmm . . . Murdock, come here." Hannibal grabbed the blanket off the bed and started wrapping the ersatz vampire in it. Face looked at him incredulously. Hannibal shrugged.

"Well, we have to get him out of here somehow. Grab his feet."

* * *

Once Nurse Hunnicutt had been reassured with a folder full of (bogus) paperwork and Murdock was safely hidden from the sun, the A-Team headed for the Badlands.

They rolled up across the street from The Nest just as the sun was disappearing over the horizon. Murdock was the first out, seemingly enraptured by the muffled music seeping out of the building.

"The children ov the night . . . vhat music they make."

"You ain't no vampire, fool." To nobody's surprise, B.A. had already had more than enough of Murdock's latest enthusiasm. "So quit talkin' like one, or I'll put you in your coffin for good."

Murdock's indignant reply was cut off by a cry of recognition from a passing youth. "B.A., man, is that you?"

The group turned towards the speaker, a boy about eight years old, whom B.A. seemed to recognize. "Yeah. Charlie, what are you doin' out so late? You should be at home, with your momma and sister."

Charlie looked properly chagrinned. "Sorry, B. A. Me and some of the guys were out lookin' for monsters!"

"Yeah?" B.A.'s expression softened. "You find any?" Charlie shook his head mournfully. "Well, you'd better get right home – I'll see you at the shelter on Thursday." B.A. chuckled softly as the youth scampered away.

"Alright, guys," said Hannibal, "Let's head into the club and see what we can find out about Mark."

As the team started across the street, an odd expression came over Face. "What did that kid mean by 'looking for monsters'?"

"Come on, Man of the Face," said Murdock, throwing a cape-covered arm over Face's shoulder. "Did you never-ever play pretend as a kid?"

Face seemed disinclined to answer, and by this time the team had reached the door of The Nest. Hannibal grabbed the door by the handle and pulled it open. Within was a short flight of stairs, which the team cautiously descended. At the bottom, a dour-looking bouncer guarded a velvet-roped gate into the club proper, but quickly let them through after some menacing looks from B.A.

The Nest was filled pounding music, dim lighting, and closely packed bodies gyrating along with the beat and was, overall, very different from the A-Team's usual stomping grounds. They made their way towards the bar in pairs, with B.A. close behind Hannibal and Face trailing behind Murdock.

The mad pilot was in his element, as many of the club's patrons were dressed in outfits similar to his, if more tastefully done. Much to Face's irritated amusement, as soon as they reached the bar a pale-faced young woman offered to buy Murdock a Bloody Mary. "No, thank you," he replied, bringing back the overly thick accent. "I do not drink . . . cocktails."

Shaking his head, Face left Murdock to his own devices and focused on one of the bartenders. A very pretty bartender, too. "Hi, there." He flashed the brunette a smile as he leaned on the bar in front of her. "Any idea what a guy should get to drink here?"

She gave a soft, musical laugh. "New here, I take it?" Face shrugged with an 'Aw, shucks' motion. "Well, you'll just have to try the house special. Everyone says it's to die for."

"Thanks – I'll have one of those, then." Face said, while the bartender disappeared for a moment and brought back a small glass filled with a cloudy green liquid. Face pushed some cash towards the woman. "Thanks, again – I'm Templeton, by the way."

"No problem – call me Sylvia."

"It's a beautiful name." Face said, taking a swallow of the drink, which seemed sweeter than most liquors he was familiar with. Setting down the empty glass, he gave Sylvia another smile. "Have you been working here for long, Sylvia?"

"You might say that." She appeared concerned. "Wasn't the drink to your taste?"

"Oh no, it was quite refreshing," Face reassured her. "I only asked because, well, my sister's boy may have been in here – he's going through a rebellious phase, you know, it's bit overwhelming for his mother and I promised Marilyn I'd come look for him."

"Oh, that's too bad." Sylvia commiserated. "I may have seen him here – what's he look like?"

In response, Face pulled out a copy of the photo Mark's mother had given the team. Sylvia studied for a moment, slowly nodding. "Yes, I think I have seen him – not here, though – at another place I work." She glanced at her watch. "In fact, my shift ends in just a few minutes. I can take you over there and find, what did you say his name was?"

For a moment, Face's brain refused to come up with the answer to Sylvia's question. _What __was__ his name? _he wondered_. It was . . . Marty? No,_ "Mark. His name's Mark." Face finally recalled.

"Yes . . . yes, I remember hearing that name. Here, let me just go punch out and we'll go see if you're nephew's over there, OK?" She disappeared towards the end of the bar, leaving another glass of the house special in her wake. Pleased at his success, Face picked it up and took a sip.

"Whatcha got there, Face?"

Starting at Murdock's voice, Face glared at his friend's fang-enhanced grin. "It's, well – it's green, Murdock. Disappear, would you? I may have a lead – I'll catch up with the rest of you later." He said, a bit more sharply than he intended.

Being in an unusually cooperative mood, Murdock vanished as quickly as he had appeared, just as Sylvia came pushed through the crowd. Linking her arm in Face's, she began pulling him towards the rear of the club. "We'll slip put through the back, it's just around the corner."

Face let her pull him through the crowd, up a flight of stairs and out into an alleyway. As they strolled through the shadows, however, Face heard movement behind them. Years of instincts, honed in the Army and on the streets, had him spinning around before he consciously registered it.

Advancing towards them from behind were three or four menacing hoods, dressed similarly to the Hell's Angels or the Barbarians. As Face turned back to warn Sylvia, something smashed into his side and tore into his neck.

_To be continued . . . _

* * *

**Author Notes:** _The A-Team_ was invented by, and presumably belongs to, Stephen J. Cannell. There is, also, a crossover at work here, which I hope isn't too obscure to figure out - identifying it outright, however, would ruin the fun. Suffice to say, the crossover elements don't belong to me either, but to the un-named (for now!) creator.


	2. Chapter 2

Luckily for Face, his departure had not gone un-noticed. As Hannibal and B.A. questioned The Nest's regulars about Mark, Murdock swooped through the crowd with a worried expression.

"No luck, Murdock?"

"Negative, Colonel. Face said he's got a line on something, but . . . I don't know, Hannibal, something seems a bit off."

Hannibal and B.A. looked over Murdock's shoulder to see Face exiting The Nest with a beautiful brunette. Then, they saw the bruisers gathering from the far corners of the room to follow them.

"Well, he's certainly in trouble now." Almost before Hannibal had finished his thought, the three of them were barreling up the stairs after their friend. They burst into the alley expecting the thugs to be beating on Face, but they were instead standing in a semicircle . . . watching the brunette nuzzle Face's neck?

The team's confusion turned to horror as she raised her mouth from Face's throat, both covered in blood. Her face formed a ghastly grin as Hannibal pulled his .45 and Murdock and B.A. scattered to take out the brutes between them and Face. "Ah," she said, "looks like Blondie here was just the appetizer."

"Blondie" was by this time feeling a more than a little light-headed, in addition to the pain in his neck. He tried to pull back to give Hannibal room to shoot, and did a double take as he looked at Sylvia's mouth. As if being covered in blood (_My blood?_ Face cringed) wasn't horrible enough, there were also honest-to-goodness _fangs_ protruding from her jaw. Stunned, Face looked in disbelief at the rest of her face, which had somehow contorted into something . . . not quite human.

A sharp crack echoed throughout the alley as Hannibal fired a shot. Sylvia staggered, releasing Face, who lost his balance and plowed into one of the other assailants. Murdock, meanwhile, had ripped off his cloak and was waving it at the thugs like a bullfighter in the ring. One of them obligingly charged, and Murdock attempted to wrap him up in the cloak while the two of them were rolling on the ground.

The rest of the gang was shortly engaged in trading punches with Hannibal and B.A., who seemed to be having more than the usual trouble. Grabbing hold of an opponent's shirt, B.A. flung him into the air and onto a pile of rubble.

Nobody noticed the broken bit of crate that pierced the thug's chest, or the fact that he promptly turned to dust and blew away.

By this time, Murdock's thug was quite thoroughly tangled in his cape, and Murdock had moved on to tag-teaming with Face against the goon he had knocked into, with negligible success. Hannibal, meanwhile, had been stunned by a punch from a remarkably huge and muscle-bound brute now taking turns with B.A. smashing their fists into each other's jaw.

"Man . . . you punch like the frakin' Slayer. . . " the goon managed to say, before collapsing into a heap. The rest of the thugs had picked themselves up, and regrouped around Sylvia, whose features Face noticed had gone back to normal, albeit still streaked with blood.

"Foolish mortals," she spat. "Do you think you can beat us with your guns and bare fists?" The rest of the gang slowly advanced towards the team, although none of them seemed particularly eager to menace B.A.

"She's got a point, guys," said Hannibal. "Face is hurting; get him back to the van while I provide cover fire." As B.A. grabbed Face, slung him over his shoulders (over the latter's weak protests), and headed for the van, Hannibal emptied his .45 at the approaching thugs. His shots seemed to have little effect, and when the gun clicked empty he turned and ran up the alley, with the gang close on his heels. As he reached the street, B.A. pulled the van up on the curb, letting Hannibal jump into the passenger seat while Murdock fired several rounds out the side with the team's antique Thompson.

With a loud screech, the A-Team disappeared into the night.

* * *

A short drive later, the team sat in the back room of the Golden Pagoda, a Chinese restaurant whose owner, Sam, was an old friend of the A-Team. Soon, they were eating a late supper in the back of the restaurant while Sam skillfully patched up Face's neck.

"I'm telling you, guys, she grew _fangs_." Face was saying. "Her whole face looked it came out of one of Hannibal's monster movies."

Hannibal frowned around a mouthful of Kung Pao squid. "Growing fangs, chewing up your neck . . . Face, it almost sounds like you think she was a vampire or something."

"And vhy not?" demanded Murdock. "Did you think I vas the only von cursed to vander through endless nights of – mph!"

B.A. sat back down, having forced an entire egg roll into Murdock's mouth. "There ain't no such things as vampires, Faceman – she was probably just on crack cocaine, or somethin'."

"And that made her face contort like an accordion?" Face retorted. "No, there's something else going on here."

"Face," Hannibal said gently, "are you sure you weren't just seeing things? You did say she gave you something to drink something before the two of you went out to that alley. Who knows what she might have drugged you with . . ."

"It wasn't drugs! I saw it just as clearly as I'm seeing all of you!"

"Faceman might be right." Sam put the finishing touches on Face's bandage, then gave a pensive frown. "I myself have seen many things in China and in Vietnam that would be explained if he were."

The uncomfortable silence which followed this remark was broken by Face. "Hold on a minute, guys – during our little tussle I managed to grab something off one of the . . . one of them." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a rather ordinary-looking leather wallet. He tossed it to Hannibal, who flipped it open and began investigating the contents.

"Lawrence Tureaud," he read off of a driver's license, "born 1949, address in Oxnard . . . huh, that's odd."

"What is?"

"His driver's license expired back in '81." Tossing the license aside, Hannibal pulled out a dog-eared business card. "Wolfram & Hart," he read, "it seems old Lawrence is a 'security consultant' for them, whoever they might be."

Face wrinkled his nose. "They're lawyers, Hannibal. Real scuzzballs, too. You guys remember Fat Louie Capetti?"

"Yeah," said B.A., "wasn't he a mob kingpin, or somethin'? They caught him stealin' kids off the street, and making 'em work for him. " His huge hands involuntarily fisted at the thought of children being victimized.

"Yeah, well, when his trial came up he somehow got off with time served. The whole thing reeked of a shady deal, and guess who his lawyers were?" Face grimaced. "That sort of thing is pretty standard for a Wolfram & Hart client."

"Maybe Mark got mixed up with one of those clients." Hannibal mused. "If we could find out whether anyone else has disappeared in this area lately, that might give us some idea of where else to look."

"Ze Police are not wery likely to know, if many of ze missing ones are runaways," noted Murdock.

"Good point. Where could we go to hear some local scuttlebutt without it getting back to the kidnappers, though?"

"Hannibal, we're not even sure there are any kidnappers," objected Face. "For all we know, Mark and his girlfriend snuck off to Vegas together and they'll turn up at home next week."

Hannibal smirked. "Yeah, Face, but down at The Nest tonight you stirred _something_ up asking about him. Now I'm kinda curious to find out exactly what it is."

"Charlie might know somethin'" B. A. offered. "Kids like that is always hearin' things 'bout what's going down on the streets."

Nobody else could really think of a better plan than this, so the A-Team finished their meal, bid Sam goodnight, and went to get some sleep before the following day's investigations.

* * *

The next morning, a sidewalk interrogation by B.A. revealed that Charlie had in fact heard of several people going missing recently. Some of his playmates had volunteered some information of their own, and soon the team was pulling up near an abandoned warehouse suspiciously close to The Nest. They tumbled out of the van, cautiously advancing towards the back door.

Even in the bright California morning, the alleyway the A-Team found themselves in was dark with shadows. The humid air seemed deadened, somehow – the only sounds were the team's footsteps and the _clink-clink _of B.A.'s jewelry. Face nervously fingered an old rosary he had impulsively stuck in his pocket that morning – never particularly devout even during his schooldays in Catholic-run orphanages; Face knew that he was just over-reacting to the previous night's talk of vampires. And yet, every few seconds, he found himself checking that it was still there.

Midway down the alley, they found themselves in front of a metal door, locked with a heavy padlock. Face made short work of this with his ever-present set of picks, and soon the door was slowly swinging open, revealing only blackness beyond.

With a sharp _click_, Hannibal pulled back the bolt on his Mini-14. The rest of the team followed suit, but before they could enter the building, the silence was broken by a voice none of them recognized.

"I wouldn't go in there, if I were you."

Almost instantly the A-Team had their weapons trained on the interloper. He was filthy and shabbily dressed, as if he had lived on the streets for many years; and yet he appeared to only be in his mid-twenties. Brown-haired and pale-skinned, he looked like he might be quite handsome, under all those years of grime.

"Well, that all depends – if you were us, who would we be?" Hannibal questioned, his voice tinged with annoyance at being snuck up on.

Despite Hannibal's sharp tone, however, the vagrant remained unruffled. "Those guns won't stop what's waiting for you in there. If you want to live, stay out."

"Just how do you know that?" demanded Face. "Who are you, anyway?"

"A friend."

"But we haven't even been properly introduced," remarked Hannibal, in a somewhat flippant manner.

"I didn't say I was your friend."

"No, no you didn't." The flippant tone was gone now. Hannibal raised his rifle and put it right up on the stranger's neck. "That's why you're coming in here with us." He gestured towards the door with the rifle barrel. "After you – _friend_."

* * *

The warehouse was as dark inside as the alley had been, if not more so. The A-Team and their reluctant companion slowly inched into the blackness, their senses on high alert for any noise or other sign of life. Feeling along the wall, B.A. discovered a light switch and, after calling a quick warning, flipped it.

After shaking off the resulting flash blindness, the team found themselves in what seemed to be another club, similar to The Nest but deserted for the day. When a quick search turned up nothing out of the ordinary, Hannibal ordered the team towards another door on the far side of the room, expecting to find an office of some sort. Again, Face's facility with lock-picks soon had them through.

Beyond this inner door, a hallway stretched into shadows that the light from behind the team barely penetrated. As they cautiously crept down the hall, Face trailed his hand along the dark wooden paneling. "Huh," he mused, "this feels like authentic stuff, guys. Expensive, too. What would it be doing in this kind of place?"

Nobody had an answer for him. Suddenly, Murdock stopped short, looked around, and said; "Hey guys – ve seem to be missing our fifth vheel."

The rest of the team looked around in shock. Indeed, somewhere between the front door and the hallway the mysterious vagrant had completely disappeared. Hannibal took the sudden departure in stride: "Alright, then, let's finish up here and get out before he can come back with any more _friends_."

At the other end of the hall the A-Team found two doors. The first lead into a fairly standard, if luxurious, office. While Hannibal and B.A. checked the filing cabinet, Face and Murdock checked the desk. "Aha!" Face exclaimed, holding up several pages for the rest of the team to examine. They seemed to be letters, handwritten on Wolfram & Hart letterhead . . . and obviously in some sort of cipher. Face wasn't even sure what language some of the squiggly symbols came from – certainly nothing any of them had ever seen, in Vietnam or subsequently.

"Bring 'em, we'll try to decode them later," ordered Hannibal. The team then left the office, opening the second door and hurrying through. What they found next, however, stopped their exploration cold.

They were in a large room, one that probably took up half the space in the warehouse. Unlike the front half of the building, this was unfinished, with walls consisting of exposed studs and bare electric wires, and a plain cement floor. Oddly, there were a number of long tables scattered around the room, with rather lumpy contents covered with sheets. Hannibal approached one warily, with the rest of the team covering the door they had just come through. He reached out and grabbed the sheet, lifting it up to check out what it concealed.

What he found shocked the team into a brief moment of confusion. A pair of shoes, presumably covering feet attached to the pants-covered legs that went up under the sheet. Hannibal promptly ripped the sheet off completely to reveal a serene-looking, but very dead, young man.

They stared at the corpse, then slowly looked around at all the other sheet-shrouded tables around them. "My God . . . " mumbled Face, not knowing or caring whether he was praying or cursing. He and B.A. began checking under the other shrouds, while Hannibal and Murdock inspected the first body.

"At least . . ." Hannibal stopped, taking a deep breath to compose himself. "At least it isn't Mark." he concluded.

B.A. and Face walked back over to them, having finished their grisly chore. The enraged expression on B.A.'s face made the results clear. Face shook his head. "They're all dead . . . Hannibal, what's happening here?"

Whatever Hannibal started to say, however, was quickly overshadowed by the dead man next to them opening his eyes and sitting up.

_To be concluded . . .  
_

* * *

**Author's Note:** My apologies for how long it's taken to update, and congratulations to everybody who figured that the crossover was with some form of vampire fiction. Specifically, the crossover is with _Angel: the Series_ which is, of course, the invention of Joss Whedon and not myself. Thanks to everybody for reading this far, and stay tuned for the thrilling conclusion!


	3. Chapter 3

**Editor's Note**: OK, I lied, this isn't the conclusion. But, considering that it's been _over a year_ since I last updated, I figured nobody would mind overmuch if I split up the last chapter into two. All the important stuff, as usual, belongs to Stephen and Joss, and I'd like to give a well-deserved "Thank You" to the Beta Team. You know who you are.

* * *

While the A-Team gaped, the supposedly dead man next to them lurched off the table, staggered to his feet, and charged B.A. with a bestial roar. B.A. responded to this with a single punch to the other's face, a move which usually was enough to finish any opponent that he might happen to meet.

This time, however, B.A.'s finishing move didn't. His attacker was stunned, but recovered almost immediately and now went for Face. As he came within striking range, the berserk man suddenly turned cowering from Face. Or rather, from something Face had clenched in his hand.

As Face shoved his old rosary – complete with miniature crucifix – in his attacker's face, B.A. took the opportunity to grab the man from behind and put him in a headlock. He barely kept his grip as the pale youth thrashed around, giving the rest of the team a chance to take a close look at his face – a face which featured a mouth full of fangs, impossibly yellow eyes, and more ridges than the average caveman.

As B.A. struggled, Face cautiously approached the . . . he really didn't want to call it a vampire, but that word was looking more accurate all the time. He leaned forward and gently touched the rosary against the side of their captive's face.

There was a slight hissing noise, and the youth gave an ear-splitting shriek. Face jumped back, while Hannibal frowned and leaned in closer.

"Look at this," he said, pointing at a red, cross-shaped burn. "What'd you touch him with, Face, a hot poker?"

Somewhat sheepishly, Face held up the rosary. The rest of the team stared at him, momentarily dumbfounded.

Their captive, however, took this opportunity to break free from B.A., this time making a lunge for Murdock. Lacking B.A.'s brawling ability, Murdock leapt out of the way, crashing into the table and causing it to collapse underneath him. Hannibal, meanwhile, whipped his gun into position and shouted, "Hey, fangface! Freeze, or I'll shoot!"

When Fangface didn't comply, Hannibal started shooting.

Submachine gunfire filled the warehouse as Face and B.A. joined in, sending dozens of rounds at the ex-corpse.

He jerked back and forth as the bullets hit him, but as the team's fire fell silent, he remained standing, a demonic leer on his deformed face. Suddenly, he stiffened and – much to the team's surprise – dissolved into a pile of dust. Standing behind him was Murdock, clutching a broken-off table leg.

"Man," B.A. complained, "all that ammo and this fool kills it with a piece of wood?"

"Yeah, there's something pretty screwy around here," put in Face, "and we should leave before more dead bodies get up and try to eat us."

"Great idea." Hannibal quickly switched out his magazine and covered the rest of the team as they went back to the paneled hallway. As they did so, he noted Murdock pausing to survey the corpse-filled room, then pull something out of his jacket pocket and fling it against the wall. Following their pilot out the door, Hannibal glanced down at the object.

It was a set of plastic vampire fangs.

* * *

As they re-entered the main club area, the A-Team found a nasty surprise waiting for them. "Sylvia" and the various members of her retinue were standing menacingly between them and the exit, faces filled with fangs and ridges. Spotting the team, she cried, "Seize them!"

Fully aware that they would be less than helpful, the team brought their guns to bear on the vampires (the team by this time had few doubts about what they were up against) as Hannibal muttered "Flying diamond, guys – meet back at the van."

The next few moments were a kaleidoscope of shouts, gunfire, and hand-to-hand combat as the team frantically fought their way to the door. B.A. was the first one through, plowing through the steel-clad exit without even bothering with the latch. With the vampires hot on their heels, he led his friends down the alley towards the van.

As they burst into the already waning sunlight (_how long were we _in_ there? _Face wondered) their pursuers stopped short; except for one unlucky vampire who lost her balance, fell head over heels into the sunlight, then (to the A-Team's halfhearted astonishment) burst into flames and burnt to ash. With the last of the clumsy vampire gently wafting away, the team lost no time scrambling into the van. B.A. prepared to peel into the traffic, but a horrifying realization stopped him short.

"Hey, where's Hannibal?"

Face and Murdock looked around in dismay, as all of them realized what had to have happened to their colonel.

"Oh, no."

"They've got him!"

"We're comin', Hannibal!" B.A. shouted, throwing open his door.

Face grabbed his friend's enormous arm. "Wait, B.A. – if we go charging back in there, we'll all just end up in the same mess as him!"

"Face, we can_not_ just leave the Colonel in the hands of those –"

"Of _course_ not, Murdock, but we have to come up with a plan to get the upper hand over these – people." Face grimaced. "It's what Hannibal would do if it was one of us. After all, he –"

" – loves it when a plan comes together!" chorused Murdock and B.A.

Face smiled sadly, hoping that they would get to hear that phrase again from Hannibal himself. "B.A., head for that construction site we passed a few blocks back. Here's what we're going to do . . . "

* * *

B.A. pushed his driving skills to the max as Face explained his plan to overcome Hannibal's vampiric captors. When they arrived at the construction site, he immediately zeroed in on a pile of discarded pipes and a welding torch, while Murdock began gathering up broken pallets and other wooden debris.

Face, for his part, quickly located and broke into a large cabinet marked "EXPLOSIVES", then started packing the contents into small cardboard boxes. Everyone worked as quickly as they could, knowing that every second counted as Hannibal's life hung in the balance.

A short eternity later, the team was sitting in the van, idling a short distance from the west wall of the building in which Hannibal had been captured. Face looked over the team's handiwork – the new addition to the van's bumper, the maze of tubing leading away from the propane canister just inside the side door, and the van-shaped ring of small cardboard boxes duct-taped to the wall directly in front of them. He nodded in approval.

"Alright, guys – let's go get Hannibal."

* * *

Groggily, Hannibal regained consciousness and found himself in darkness. He was upright, his arms wrapped around a metal pole and chained together behind his back. Bruises covered his left shoulder and leg, and from the way his head was pounding he could tell that he had recently smacked it on something.

Hannibal dazedly remembered taking the rear-guard position as his team retreated from the vampires; being gradually surrounded as the pursuers started gaining ground; taking a low-slung tackle that tripped him up and sent him tumbling to the ground (_there's the bruises_, he thought) mere yards from the sanctuary of the van; feeling a grim satisfaction as his fall knocked one of his pursuers into the fiery sunlight; and then – waking up in the blackness.

Suddenly, Hannibal's musings were interrupted by a feminine voice, at once alluring and repulsive.

"_Luminos."_

At the unfamiliar word, light blazed from a dozen torches and numerous candles placed along the walls.

"Nice trick," said Hannibal, blinking at the change. "Have you ever considered putting together a stage show? Taking it on the road?"

The voice disdained to answer this. Hannibal took the opportunity to note that he was back in the warehouse, and that most, if not all, of the shrouded bodies were now walking around and eyeing him hungrily.

"John 'Hannibal' Smith", continued the voice, as though reading from his records, "formerly of the United States Army, served in Korea and Vietnam, attained the rank of colonel, renowned as an . . . _unorthodox_ tactician, now a fugitive who has eluded mortal authorities for thirteen years."

Hannibal was not terribly surprised when the owner of the voice stepped into view and turned out to be Face's 'contact' from The Nest.

"You sure know a lot about me," he remarked. "Now how about telling me a bit about you?"

"About me? I am Lady Sylvia d'Eath, favored of the Countess, soon to be the ruler of this city!" she exclaimed, fangs bursting out in excitement. Lady Sylvia d'Eath leaned in close to Hannibal with a wicked grin. "As well as your future mother-in-darkness."

Although Hannibal had no idea what it meant, that last comment had made him rather uncomfortable. "My mother," he acidly responded, "passed away in a nursing home while I was in Vietnam."

Sylvia shook her head in amusement. "No, no, silly – soon, I will turn you from the weak mortal you are, into one fit to lead my forces to victory. Truly, good fortune has smiled on us today – bringing me such an experienced solider, and bringing you to be freed from your bonds of mortality!"

Hannibal gave a roguish grin. "You mean like breathing? Sorry, I like my victory cigars too much to give them up." His eyes hardened. "And then there's the whole, 'leeching off other people's blood' thing to consider – so thanks, but no thanks."

"For such a supposed tactical savant, you are being particularly dense," the vampiress responded. "This is an offer you're not allowed to refuse."

She then brought her face close to Hannibal's, angling to bite at his neck. He immediately head-butted her, setting off a short, violent struggle which ended with one of Sylvia's hands locked under Hannibal's chin, the other pulling down his collar. "Don't worry," she cooed in his ear as he struggled, "it will all be over soon."

Suddenly, the back wall of the warehouse exploded.

Sylvia jerked her head up at the noise, and Hannibal cheered inwardly as the team's van burst through the wreckage. He was initially mystified by the pointy wooden structure now attached to the grill, but when B.A. plowed through the crowd and impaled several vampires on the device, he was quite impressed.

As his new hood ornaments crumbled, B.A. jumped out of the van, grabbed the nearest vampire, and punched it in the face. He grinned at the cross-shaped welts this left, then delivered several more punches until the vampire lay down and quit trying to eat him. _Face's idea's working __great,_ he thought, reaching for the next vampire, gold crosses that once hung around his neck now wrapped around his hands.

Murdock and Face, meanwhile, had leapt out of the side door as soon as the van screeched to a halt. Face made a beeline for Hannibal, lock-picks in hand, while Murdock threatened the crowd of vampires with what appeared to be a metal pole attached to the van by a hose. Hannibal barely had time to register the presence of a tiny flame inside the pipe before a stream of fire burst from it, setting several of the undead alight.

Unfortunately, Face was having a bit more trouble. Having assured himself that Hannibal was still alive (in every sense of the word), he had gone to work on his friend's bonds. "Dammit," he muttered, "it's a late-model Gordian. Hang, on, Hannibal, I'm gonna need some bolt cutters or something."

"Here, use this." Hannibal and Face both jumped at the voice, which heralded the return of the mysterious vagrant.

"You!" Hannibal hissed, as Face took the offered hacksaw and went to work on the chains.

"Yes, me." The stranger was maddeningly unruffled. Turning to leave again, he continued, "I warned you to stay out of here."

"So, what – you went and got Lady Dracula to grab us, then help us escape when she does? What kind of sense is that supposed to make?"

Stopping short, the stranger half-turned to look back at Hannibal. "If you mean Sylvia – you think I brought her to you?"

"Well, if you're not with her, then who are you?" Hannibal demanded, stretching the kinks out of his arms as the chain fell away.

"Let's just say I'm your guardian angel." The stranger's words hung in the air as he vanished into the crowd, which was by now racing every which way trying to escape Murdock's flamethrower.

"Unbelievable," remarked Face. Just then, a section of the roof collapsed from the rapidly spreading flames, blocking the A-Team's impromptu entrance.

"Face, find Murdock and get the two of you back in the van," ordered Hannibal. Face rushed off to do so, leaving Hannibal to find B.A. He was just tossing a vampire end over end into the van's new grill when Hannibal raced up.

"B.A., we need to get out of here. Your exit's blocked; can the van fit down the hallway?"

"I'll _make_ it fit," was the growled response.

* * *

On the public side of the building, the nightclub had just opened for business, and the bartenders and few early customers were blissfully unaware that the back of the building was currently a blazing inferno. Therefore, they were understandably quite shocked when the A-Team's van burst through the back door, leaving fiery destruction in its wake.

B.A. hit the brakes and spun the wheel, skidding the van across the dance floor. Lining up with the door, he pounded the horn as a warning and hit the gas. Bouncers and patrons scattered as the van shattered the doors, bounced across the sidewalk, and flew into the road. Narrowly missing a bright yellow Volkswagen, the A-Team disappeared into the twilight.


End file.
